


Guinevere's Boysenberry Pie Shop

by thebadseed



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebadseed/pseuds/thebadseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwen's pies are the best. Or at least that's what she thought before she moved to the big city: Camelot. There are customs here, new rules and weird laws and much for her to learn about her new home where she has few friends and no customers for her pies. She's running out of time, low on hope and practically out of money, but she doesn't want to give up, doesn't want to return to the countryside and admit failure or have to start over again. When she encounters an odd man with and even stranger request, she's sure her luck has only gotten worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon A Time

**Author's Note:**

> Once in a while, right in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale.

_"Move to the big city they said. Everyone loves pies and your pies are the best they said."_

Gwen huffed.

The clock read 5:55 p.m. and in five minutes, Guinevere's Boysenberry Pie Shop would be closed and another day would've gone by and the till would be empty. She stared down at the golden brown, flaky pie crusts each with three holes in their center so you could see their Boysenberry filling. 

At least some people still ate pie, even if they may have been too poor to afford them. 

Her pies weren't extravagant nor were they the more popular flavors like apple or lemon that people seemed to fancy. Her Boysenberry may have been a hit back home, but in Camelot, they were third rate, or so people said behind her back.

Gwen sighed. She pushed herself off the clean, clear glass where thirty pies sat untouched in three perfectly aligned rows of ten, and went to the door.

What could happen in the next four minutes that hadn't happen for the entire day?

Shoulders drooping with each step, she approached the entrance and raised her right hand to turn over the 'OPEN/CLOSE' sign, but the door swung backwards (taking the sign with it) and a tall, slender man with dark hair and crystal blue eyes, dress in a slim dark grey suit stood before her.

"Good evening, Guinevere," he said.

She blinked. Shocked.

"How do you know my name?"

The man smiled. "Forgive me, I did not come to Guinevere's Boysenberry Pie Shop in search of a Pam." He took one step inside and asked, "Are you a Pam?"

Blushing and feeling more foolish than ever in her life, Gwen said, "No. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you an idiot? You seem smart enough to know better than to be an idiot."

Apparently she wasn't. Not smart enough to know that people here were most definitely not like people back home and that a Boysenberry pie shop in Camelot was a horrendous idea.

"We're closed," Gwen said. 

"Actually, I believe you have three more minutes until you close."

She sucked in a breath and let it out. 

"How may I help you?"

"I'd like to buy a pie," he declared. "And I'd like to sit here and enjoy it. I presume you sell pies here given the name of your establishment and I deduced that these tables and chairs are meant for your pie patrons to use whilst eating pies?"

Gwen couldn't tell if he was being mean, everything he said sounded so pleasantly light leaving his tongue, or if he'd decided to speak to her in plainer way because she declared herself an idiot moments before.

"Of course," she told him and turned, walking back to the counter. 

She ignored her concerns and quietly reveled in the moment. She thought her smile might freeze all the muscles of her face in place. Four months in Camelot selling Boysenberry pies and finally she had a customer who wanted to purchase one of them.

Her brown eyes took turns staring widely, curiously, from the young man to the clock on the wall. It appeared to her that time itself was moving more slowly than before as the man examined the contents of the glass case trying to decide between identical pies.

At last, he selected one from the center of the middle row.

"They're all the same, you know," Gwen remarked as she took two silver coins from his hand.

"Impossible," he replied. 

She didn't argue. She was eager for him to eat (in good spirits). 

Gwen handed him the pie, a paper napkin and a spoon. He took them with both hands, went to the table on the right and set them before a chair facing her. The man then unbuttoned his jacket and carefully draped it over the back of the chair before he pull it from under the table and sat. She watched him intently knowing that his first reaction would reveal all his true thoughts -- although, she was sure that he'd go out of his way to tell her exactly what he believed.

As he hoisted the spoon in the air, her breath hitched, releasing when he lowered it onto the crust and broke a half moon section of the surface into crumbly bits and scooped a heap of pastry and Boysenberry filling to his mouth. Remarkably, his face was unreadable. She let out a sharp breath, frustrated, and when his blue eyes snapped up at her, she ducked her head, pretending to dust the counter.

He cleared his throat. "Would you like to join me?" She looked up at him, mouth agape. "Please," he said and pointed at the chair across from him, face kind and reassuring.

"Alright," Gwen said softly.

She rushed, then caught herself slowing her strides to his table. 

"This is quite a good pie, Guinevere."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course I'm sure."

Gwen beamed. Her spine straightened and her shoulders pressed into the back of the chair. She watched him in silence as he spooned bites of the pie into this mouth until the four inch plate was empty. He blotted the corners of his mouth with the napkin then neatly folded it beside the white porcelain container, placing the spoon on top. There was not a single crumb on the table, she noticed.

"An excellent pie. The filling was extraordinary. The outer casing light and flaky. Perfectly baked. Well done, Guinevere."

"Oh, call me Gwen." She blushed proudly.

"I'm...pleased to meet you, Gwen," he said and smiled.

They sat in the middle of an awkward silence before she gained the courage to say, "I don't mean to be rude, but would you mind if I asked you something?"

"Not at all. Go ahead."

"You thought the pie was good?"

"One of the best I've had."

She sighed, wondering. "Would...it's, well...I'm new to Camelot and it seems no one here likes my pies very much. In fact, you're my very first customer and I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Gwen. I cannot answer that," he said and she slumped. "I'm afraid people here are just as much a mystery to me as they are to you. However, there is something I'd like to share with you. Something that might solve your problems."

She narrowed her brows at him.

"Go on," she told him.

"Tomorrow, a young man about my age will walk into your shop. He'll be sharply dressed and, regrettably short-tempered."

"How do you know this?"

"Nevermind that, it's not important now. What is important is that you mustn't allow him to leave."

"What?"

"Don't let him out of your shop?"

"But that's kidnapping. That's illegal, isn't it?"

"Only just."

"No, I think it's entirely against the law. And how would something like that possibly solve any of my problems?"

"I have to go now." He stood abruptly.

"But--"

"Don't forget. Don't allow him to leave the premises."

The man whipped his jacket of the chair, elegantly folded it over an arm, turned and walked briskly out the door.

"Tosser," Gwen said. "Mad tosser."

She cleared the table and went over to the counter. Giddy again, Gwen opened the till and removed the coins.

"Your first sale, Guinevere," she said softly and sighed. "Let's hope it's not your last."

She closed the front door and flipped over the 'OPEN/CLOSE' sign and began her nightly ritual of removing the day old pies and preparing them for the donation bin at the church. Later she'll return to make more filling and fresh crusts for another thirty pies for tomorrow before she'd retire upstairs to bed.

The strange man and his odd request return to mind for a brief instance then floated away as she fell asleep.


	2. The Future King of Camelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is the restless Prince of Camelot who must conform to his family's royal tradition, but longs for another life. His choice is simple, but that won't stop him from trying to avoid it.

_“You’ll be King, they said. Rule a kingdom. Wear the crown.”_

Arthur patrolled the line of princesses painted in masterful strokes, admiring each respective artist’s brushstroke rather than the faces portrayed inside the four corners of the gold frames. At the third princess, he stepped forward, folded his arms across his broad chest, brought one hand to his chin, wrinkled his brow then stepped back again and moved to the right. This particular combination of gestures always pleased them — definitely appeased them. His father, the king, and the ministers of the matrimonial court murmured at his back. For now, Arthur was content not being able to decipher whether the groans were worried reflexes or just relief that he finally appeared to be taking an interest in one of his prospective brides. 

He moved to the fifth and final portrait.

They were pretty. Many beautiful. But how was he to know for sure never having met them? And what were they like? Would they bore him? Would he bore them? But what did any of it matter? It was the marriage he objected to, not them.

 

He sighed, tired of asking these same questions over and over again in his head. Arthur shook his head. “No. None of these will do.”

The room gasped, groaned, grumbled displeasure. 

“But Arthur, this is the fourth set of portraits we’ve received in as many months,” his father said, bursting with consternation. “There won’t be any princesses left at this rate.”

At that thought, he smiled inwardly. He turned and looked at his father. A twinge of guilt twisted his insides provoked by the fret on the older man’s face. 

“I’m sorry, father,” he said, wholly honest.

The king sighed, nodded his grey head, which was much more grey than at the outset of this hunt, then dismissed the ministers. The Camelot Royal Ministry of Matrimony filed from the room, heads hung low and shoulders round, their thick blue robes dragging behind their heavy feet. Merlin reacted then, darting out of the groove he’d worn into the floors by the wall to gather up the paintings from their easels. Juggling them in his arms, he traipsed out of the door while the king took to his high-backed chair, slouching into the throne. 

Arthur knew what was coming next.

When his father had regaled him with enough stories to bore even himself to sleep, he tucked the king’s royal cape up under his chin  
and slipped quietly out of the room. Merlin’s head rose as he walked out into the hall. His boot settled in place, ceasing from kicking the finished edge of the pristine rug.

“How was it?”

“Not bad.”

“Told you the one about him and your mum again, huh?”

“An oldie, but goodie.”

Their laughter rose halfway up the high ceilings. 

“I liked number three," Merlin said as they walked down the hall, away from the king’s apartments. 

“Well then you marry her.”

“You’re not going to be young and beautiful forever, Arthur.” The prince’s blue eyes rolled in his head. “Twenty four and a half.  
Camelot is all about its tradition, the rich tapestry of our history. Even princes have to obey the will of the people and for a hundred generations the princes in your family have ruled here and they’ve, each and every one of them, married at age twenty-five.

“So I’m forced to give up my relative state of happiness for tradition sake?”

“Rich tapestry,” Merlin said again, raising his eyebrows.

Arthur groaned and stomped up the curved stairs like he did when he was small and found the palace was much larger. He climbed all thirty-two steps to the top floor, walked down one long hallway then another. From there he entered his quarters. Six rooms equipped for every need, nearly every desire. His bedchambers overlooked his favorite part of the palace. The gardens; the mazes in particular. Often he strolled out onto the balcony and stared out at sunsets or sunrises, at the sharp lines and perfect angles of the forever green hedges to the many rooftops of the village below and to the distant horizon far outside of his kingdom, wondering what new possibility lied beyond the trees. As he stood staring at it now, his only thought was: a wife. She would come from somewhere out there. That was his destiny. 

“Wasn’t it?” he said in a small voice to the infinite universe.

It wasn’t the first time he spoke out loud to nothing and no one. It was, however, the first time it spoke back. 

“No,” it said.

Arthur’s eyes chased the echo on the wind. His feet followed. He ran along the balusters after it’s advice. “No,” it repeated. “You have a choice, Arthur. Your true destiny is out there.”

The voice faded with each word. 

“Wait,” he yelled. “Tell me about my true destiny. Tell me what to do!” It answered him. Arthur strained his ears. “What? What did you say?”

“Runaway,” the universe tutted, sharp and curt, appearing suddenly into solid form from a whirlwind of black and violet smoke. The woman, the universe, had long, green hair, brilliant purple eyes — the same shade of the smoke — and pointy ears, her skin smooth and pale and shimmery. 

“I said, runaway,” she repeated.

“Who are you?” 

A fairy? An elf? A land nymph of some sort?

Her lips curled into a smile. “That’s not important. What is important is that you leave Camelot this afternoon,” she insisted gleefully.

Arthur smiled as wide as she did, imagining himself far away from the confines of the kingdom (at least for a little while), then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“You know what will happen if I leave Camelot. Don’t you?” 

She looked questioningly for an explanation, but surely everyone knew of the tales and certainly someone like her would. 

“I’m the prince. Prince Arthur. The sole heir to the throne of Camelot. The kingdom cannot survive without me here.”

“Oh that silly thing,” she said and waved it — or him or both — off. She leaned closed and said with a head shake, “Not true.”

“What!”

“An old evil witches’ tale I’m afraid. Nothing more.”

Her voice was so light and cheery. And he wanted to believe her.

She began strolling away.

Wanting more, he stepped in stride with her. “So I can leave Camelot and nothing terrible will happen to my people? To my Father?”

“Yes,” she said, then immediately added, “No.”

“Well which one is it?”

“It’s both, somewhat.” Arthur wrinkled his brow, annoyed with the riddles. She stopped walking and he did too. “Nothing bad will happen if you leave, BUT! You cannot leave, unless…” 

She rose a finger to the space between his eyes and his head followed it as it moved in a tiny wavering circle. The trespassing woman reached into her sleeve and pulled out a vial of shiny liquid from an invisible compartment. 

“You cannot leave…unless you drink this. And if you leave, your people will be untroubled.”

Arthur studied her and the contents of the bottle. All his life, he’d been told a story. A dreadful, horrible promise.  
Could it have all been a lie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on Monday. Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part I & II of the fic originally written for the prompt: Illusions donated by Rubberglue. It will be the only ficlet from the challenge that I'll upload to AO3 because *shrugs* :D 
> 
> Will update every Monday 'til done.


End file.
